Favorites
by ailene
Summary: Harry and Neville discover that Hermione has been sexually abused by Professor McGonagall. Please R
1. Chapter One

A/N: WARNING: THIS IS A PERVERTED PIECE OF SHIT FEATURING GRAPHIC STUDENT/TEACHER RELATIONSHIPS, AS WELL AS HOMOSEXUAL AND FORCED SEX. IF YOU ARE UNDER 17 (Or whatever the age limit is in your state/county) THEN PLEASE BE ADVISED. PARENTS, I'M NOT RESPONSIBLE IF YOUR CHILD READS THIS, YOU SHOULD BE WATCHING THEM BETTER!  
  
  
  
"Class dismissed," announced Professor McGonagall after a particularly difficult tranfigurations class. The students all breathed a sigh of relief, especially Neville Longbottom. He'd faithfully spent the entire hour trying to turn his needle into a bunny rabbit, but the most he'd accomplished was to give the needle two hind legs and a light dusting of fur. Nor was he helped by the way his now-mobile needle continued to attack him. If Hermione hadn't stupefied it, he might have even more bleeding little puncture wounds on his hands. He gathered up his books and was hurriedly shoving them into his backpack not wanting to be late for potions. He shuddered at the thought of what Professor Snape would do to him if he were late again.  
  
He went over to Hermione, who was still restuffing her own bookbag. "Thanks for helping me with my needle," he said hesistantly.  
  
The kind smile Hermione bestowed upon him was enough to make his knees wobble. "It's alright, Neville," she said graciously. "If I hadn't stepped in to help you, that vicious needle might've turned your poor hands into mincemeat."  
  
Neville turned red and muttered something under his breath. Hermione, aware of the small crush Neville had developed for her, quickly looked for something else to talk about. "I see you like the backpack I got you for Christmas," she commented brightly.  
  
Seemingly just as relieved by the change in subject, Neville matched her smile. He'd never been able to go anywhere without dropping his bag and spilling the contents all over the floor at least once a day. After the Slitheryns had discovered this weakness, the number of accidents increased exponentially, more often than not ending with his bright red face surrounded by Slitheryn students, laughing hysterically. Last Christmas, an owl delivered a strange-looking present from Hermione. That his grandmother had been equally puzzled as to its function told him that this was clearly some kind of muggle artifact Hermione had gotten for him. Upon return to school, she promptly explained that it was a closeable bag for his books, so that he wouldn't find himself spilling them all over the floor. The zippers were quickly explained, and he was beside himself with delight the next time Pansy Parkinson tripped him in the hallway, only for her disappointed face to discover that his new and strange-looking bag wasn't nearly as obliging as his old one. And the fact that it was a muggle thing meant that it was strictly illegal for anyone to place a spell upon it, as Milicent Bulstrode found out when a representative from the Ministry of Magic had appeared to inform her that she was lucky the Longbottoms were choosing to not press charges. Of course, there was the howler he'd received from his grandmother when she'd learned that her son was using a muggle invention given to him by a mudblood of all people. The rage he'd felt when she called Hermione by that name pushed him to write a scathing letter to his formidable guardian, standing up to her for one of the first times in his life.  
  
As it was, things were back to their old, awkward norm, with Neville hopelessly enamored of Hermione and her painfully aware of the fact. So, as it was, even Neville was somewhat relieved when Professor McGonagall called out "Miss Granger, could I speak to you for a moment? Privately?"  
  
Hermione paled instantly and Neville couldn't help but think that she looked rather nervous, considering that she was only going to speak to the professor who made it obvious that she favored Hermione. In fact, she looked far more than nervous..  
  
Neville almost groaned to himself. Undoubtedly, McGonagall had asked Hermione not to help him, and was now going to quietly inform the girl what the consequences of her actions were. Guiltily, he turned to Hermione, "I'm sorry if you're getting into trouble for helping me, you really don't have to, you know."  
  
The look of confusion on her face reassured him that he wasn't the cause for McGonagall's request. "What? Oh, no, Neville, this has nothing to do with you, really."  
  
Then she hurried up to the front desk and Neville turned to leave. At the door, he dared one last glance back at Hermione, but instead met the face of Professor McGonagall. She smiled at him, but there was a trace of cunning present that made him shudder, a triumphant smirk that he hadn't thought her kind face could possibly form. Confused, he closed the door and made his way to potions.  
  
~~  
  
Hermione knew the minute Neville left the room, for Professor McGonagall raised her wand and muttered a locking spell, before looking at her pupil. "Well now, Miss Granger," she began, the smirk that had bewildered Neville still prominent on her face. "Was it just me, or was it you who stupefied Mr. Longbottom's unsuccessful spell? Even though I have asked you repeatedly not to interfere in his somewhat sputtering learning process?"  
  
"I, um, didn't help him with the assignment, Professor. I just stopped his needle from attacking him," Hermione explained, biting her lip. Seeing the skepticism on McGonagall's face, she continued; "It was vicious, Professor, Neville was already bleeding quite badly by the time I stupefied it. I didn't do anything to help him complete the spell."  
  
"Really, Miss Granger?" McGonagall drawled with a smug, know-it-all expression. "I think that you, of all students, should know that how good a spell turns out in the real world is entirely dependent on the level of distraction and the wizard's ability to cope with that distraction. By saving 'poor Neville' from a slight bit of pain-which, I should point out, could be quite easily repaired by Madam Pomfrey-you have taken away from that most fundamental and necessary part of his education. Indeed, with Voldemort returning to power, it is quite possible that Mr. Longbottom should be forced to work under far more hazardous conditions than the one you have just saved him from. You are doing him a decided disservice by aiding him in class. I would advise that you discontinue doing so immediately."  
  
Hermione swallowed hard, staring at her shoes. Now came the part that she dreaded most of these little talks Professor McGonagall had with her. "Now, Miss Granger," the Professor purred, with a glint in her eye that scared the shit out of Hermione. "What do you think your punishment should be for this infraction?"  
  
Hermione closed her eyes and swallowed again before whispering the answer she knew was expected of her. "I should be given detention on Friday night with my punishment to be determined by you, Professor."  
  
Although Hermione's tightly closed eyes didn't show her, she knew that the smirk on Professor McGonagall's face had grown into a full-fledged grin. "An excellent choice, Miss Granger," the Professor's response was throaty, as if she were having trouble saying the words. "Now, why don't you come over here and give your favorite professor a kiss?" 


	2. Chapter Two

"Miss Granger, I've told you repeatedly not to help Mr. Longbottom with his potion!" Professor Snape hissed, a malicious smirk splitting his face. Hermione gaped, angry tears filling her eyes. She hadn't been helping Neville. Just because his potion was the proper bright blue instead of some strange and unnatural shade, it didn't mean that she had been helping him. "20 points from Gryffindor," Snape announced gleefully.  
  
"Professor," Neville began nervously, staring into his potion when Snape turned to face him.  
  
"Do you have something to say to me, Longbottom?" Snape snapped, annoyed that the foolish boy was even talking to him.  
  
"Hermione wasn't helping me," Neville whispered, unable to speak any louder out of fear for the cold-eyed bastard leaning over him.  
  
"What was that?" Snape thundered, and leaned closer to Neville. The stink of fear told him the depth of Neville's terror, and he wondered idly just how much this boy would be able to take before he snapped. The almost superstitious fright that immobilized students in his presence never ceased to amuse him. They had no idea that he was far from the person they should fear most.  
  
"Herm-," Neville choked on her name, on his fear, then bit his tongue until the pain distracted him, giving the courage to continue. "Hermione wasn't helping me," he said loudly. Well, louder, anyways. It gushed out in one breathe, and his new-found courage apparently left with it, as he began to shake for thought of what the bane of his existence would do to him now.  
  
"Oh really?" Snape leaned closer still. He could smell the blood on Neville's breath. That show of courage had taken quite some effort to dredge up. Of course, he knew perfectly well that Longbottom hadn't been receiving instructions from Granger, had watched the boy add the dragon scales before the mandrake, rather than after, and also knew that the potion would have quite a different effect than shrinking things to exactly one-half their usual size. Suddenly a quite malicious idea occurred to him.  
  
"Very well, Longbottom," Snape said with an evil smirk. "If Miss Granger has not been helping you, as you claim, then your potion will have some error and will not shrink you. Let's test it. If you are telling the truth, then I will readdress the amount of points taken from your house." He dipped a spoon into the potion and handed it to Neville.  
  
Snape's grin widened in direct proportion to the horror on Neville's face. Neville knew that his potion was somehow flawed and would have a drastic and possibly dangerous effect on him. But, upon seeing the smug grin on Snape's face, he realized that Snape was also aware of this fact, and perhaps had taken away points simply to force Neville into this position. Without letting himself think on it further, he grabbed the spoon and swallowed its contents.  
  
The class looked expectantly on as Neville trembled. Although Neville would be mortified to learn it, everyone at Hogwarts knew of his crush on Hermione, and that he would only stand up for her if she truly hadn't been helping him, which added an interesting twist to the whole situation.  
  
Suddenly, Neville's eyes widened, and his face turned white. The class leaned in as one, wondering what Neville had done to himself. The only change that could be noted was that Neville, well, no longer looked exactly like Neville. It was a subtle change, like one you'd find on an old acquaintance you haven't seen in ten years, but it was there nonetheless.  
  
Snape's eyes narrowed even as the rest of the class sighed in disappointment. While he wasn't entirely sure what effect the potion was supposed to have on Neville, he had expected something a little more strange than a slight rearranging of his facial features. Subtlety in a potion required an experienced potions master. Could it be possible that the incompetent Longbottom had made a subtle potion purely by accident?  
  
"Very well, Longbottom," Snape conceded. "As you are still very much your regular size, 20 points will not be deducted from Gryffindor. However, you are still assigned one detention with me for Friday night. For your insubordination."  
  
Neville's face fell at this pronouncement. He had been so glad about earning back 20 points for Gryffindor, and now had detention for his efforts. And Snape kept on giving him those strange looks, as if he were a puzzle the professor were trying to figure out. Well, even he wasn't precisely sure what the potion had done to him. All he knew was that he'd felt a strange warm glow, and a slight pulling at his face, and at his . . . .well, you know. He blushed even to think about it, and cast a quick glance at Hermione. Her talk with Professor McGonagall must've been quite lengthy, she'd been a full thirty minutes late to potions, but had produced a note excusing her absence. She now stared at her potion, stirring it absent-mindedly. He chewed his bottom lip, wondering if he should just walk over and ask her if she wanted to hang out some time. It wouldn't be that hard, he could just lean over, and whisper the question, no one else had to hear him ask, just her. Just lean over and . . . .  
  
"Mr. Longbottom!" Snape's voice echoed off the walls, making Neville jump. The smirk on Snape's face was sickeningly smug. "Do you have anything better to do than stare at Miss Granger's ear? Like-perhaps-attempting to correct your potion so that if I make you try it again at the end of class you won't begin sprouting extra toes, as is the most common side-effect of a badly-done shrinking potion?"  
  
Neville gulped and quickly returned his attentions to his cauldron, daring only a small glance at Hermione. She didn't meet his eyes. Neville sighed; he knew what an embarrassment he was. She may be muggle born, but he was a pure-blood, and nearly a squib. Hell, he couldn't even properly mess up his potions. She knew he had a crush on her, which made things very difficult between the two of them. If he could only work up the nerve to talk to her, lose some of his ineptness, maybe a little of his clumsiness, then maybe, just maybe, he'd have a chance.  
  
Neville sighed glumly and stared into his potion. Like hell any of that was going to happen. Hermione would likely end up with that Viktor chap who'd competed in the Triwizard last year, and he, Neville Longbottom, would settle down with some suitably nice girl and live out his life putzing around in the gardens he was going to start as soon as his grandmother hit the dirt. Maybe he could even use the old windbag as compost.  
  
The bell rang, startling Neville from his reverie.  
  
~~  
  
Friday evening came too quickly for Hermione. At 6:30, she glanced at the clock, sighed morosely, and closed the book she'd been reading. Or rereading, rather. No matter how many times she read it, 'Hogwarts, A History,' never lost its magical touch. It had been given to her by Dumbledore himself, when he'd arrived at her house one evening to inform her parents that their daughter was a witch. There had been a twinkle in his eye as he handed her the impressive tome and commented that this 'short summary' of the school and its history might make quite an impression on her.  
  
She sighed again, longing for those carefree days, full of excitement and anticipation. But that was before she'd discovered the things that were blatantly omitted from her revered book. Professor McGonagall had taken a shine to her immediately, claiming to admire Hermione's work ethic, memory retention, and superb attention to detail. It wasn't until halfway through her second year that Hermione had learned exactly what McGonagall meant when she said she 'admired' a student.  
  
At first she hadn't known how to react. Growing up in the muggle school system had taught her that if a teacher touched her inappropriately, she should run and tell another teacher or an adult that she could trust. But it would've been a student's word against McGonagall's, and who would've been believed? After having the following summer to think it over, carefully and-somewhat-objectively, Hermione had decided to confide in one of the other teachers, only to be told quite bluntly that Professor McGonagall's actions were by no means a secret from the rest of the staff. Furthermore, she was also informed that such things were fairly commonplace and often seen as an honor rather than a crime.  
  
And so Hermione packed up her books and slowly made her way to McGonagall's classroom. She knocked on the door rather timidly, not really wanting to be here, glad that Harry and Ron had bought her story of studying in the library. Of course, that's where she usually said she was when Professor McGonagall wanted to see her. She couldn't bear the thought of having Harry and Ron know the truth. They were the ones she turned to whenever she had been overly humiliated by McGonagall. They didn't know. Hopefully, they never would.  
  
"You may enter, Miss Granger," came a silky voice.  
  
Hermione pushed open the door to find Professor McGonagall sitting in her chair, behind the desk that would no doubt soon be put to what her professor considered "good use." She closed the door and stood there awkwardly, not wanting to be too far from her only escape route, but realizing that she would soon have no choice.  
  
"Come here, Miss Granger," came the order, still in the soft, throaty voice that McGonagall used whenever she was aroused. And as Hermione came level with the large, antique, oaken desk, she could see that her professor most certainly was aroused. Although her hair was-as always-tucked up into a tight bun, tonight she had evidently passed up her usual robes in favor of something more comfortable. That is, if the skin-tight black leather bustier and chaps could be deemed comfortable. Hermione nervously noticed the whip twitching in McGonagall's hand, and wondered exactly what she would be subjected to tonight.  
  
She soon found out.  
  
"Why aren't you greeting me properly?" hissed Professor McGonagall, sliding the words over her tongue before relinquishing them to open air. She had a way of licking every word she uttered before allowing it to leave her mouth, so that, once in the air, it would drip with unvoiced meaning. There were times when, in the depths of her humiliation and pain, Hermione crazily thought that the liquid lust in those words must drip down, down into the floor, and from there leak into the very foundations of the school, where countless similar words had dripped over the years, even since the time of the four founders.  
  
That was mostly the basis of her humiliation. In the muggle world, such things were highly discouraged and there were any number of places a child could turn to if they were being abused. The wizarding world was a completely different matter. She wasn't even a rarity, nor was she any different from countless other children who McGonagall had forced her attentions upon. She was hardly the first to bend down on her knees and pay her respects to the matching leather boots adorning McGonagall's feet. Nor could she be the first to be cooed at for her perfect form in responding and then invited up onto the leather-clad lap. And the deftness of the fingers that gently slipped under her robe told her that there was no way hers could be the first young body to come under McGonagall's touch.  
  
**A/N: Just out of curiosity, how do I get this to have italics after I upload it? I've seen italics in countless other fics, and I'd like to have them in mine too. Please review and let me know what you think!  
  
And thanks to my only reviewer so far, Azaelian, let me know if you like it. If you're just reading this for hard-core porn, you gotta wait, bcuz that won't be for another chapter or two. 


	3. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I probably should have put this on the first two chapters, but I forgot and I'm too lazy to go back and change it right now.  
  
  
  
From underneath his invisibility cloak, Harry followed Hermione soundlessly. Something about Hermione had been wrong this evening. She'd been nervous for the last week, had hardly eaten anything, and had acquired a haunted look you'd expect on someone who'd been tortured by Lord Voldemort for a month straight. After he thought about it, he realized that she had been unusually downcast lately, almost depressed. She wasn't the bossy know-it-all that she'd begun Hogwarts as, but Harry had just assumed that constant exposure to him and Ron had mellowed her out. But now he'd seen a pattern.  
  
Concerned, he'd followed her all week, wondering if Malfoy was the reason for her unhappiness. If that bastard had laid a finger on Hermione . . . .  
  
But no, she was ducking into Professor McGonagall's office. That was strange; why wouldn't she have told them she was meeting with the professor? McGonagall made no secret of the fact that she liked Hermione. Everyone knew that the animagus treated Hermione as her protege. His curiosity roused, he slipped in after her.  
  
He noticed that Hermione's face was pale, and she seemed to have developed a slight twitch in her left cheek. What could be so bad about a meeting with McGonagall? Then he heard the professor, summoning Hermione to her desk. But the tone, the blatant sexuality in that voice, that couldn't really be McGonagall, could it?  
  
Bewildered now, he followed Hermione up to the desk. What he saw there boggled his imagination, made him wonder if he was hallucinating. That couldn't be McGonagall trussed up like a muggle dominatrix . . . could it?  
  
As Harry watched, Hermione bent down and kissed McGonagall's boots. Then it struck him. This couldn't be the first time this had happened. Hermione was too calm, too obedient. His mind reeled; she often came in late to other classes, after talking to McGonagall for lengthy periods of time. In fact, she had been a half hour late to potions on Tuesday . . . when she had stayed after transfigurations to talk to McGonagall. Then he had a second flash in understanding; and it was one that turned his stomach. She had been reckless, frightened and depressed since sometime during their second year. This had been going on for three years now.  
  
He watched, horrified, as this transformed McGonagall opened Hermione's robes, exposing two small breasts, both covered with an assortment of scars and bruises. His disgust deepened as the head of Griffindor house growled in satisfaction and proceeded to roll one of Hermione's nipples between slender fingers until it hardened before cruelly digging two of her long nails into either side. Hermione whimpered and flinched, but made no move to stop it. Harry was close enough to see the tears trailing down her face as McGonagall let go of the nipple, and leaned her favorite pupil back on the desk, so that she was standing between Hermione's legs.  
  
"What are these tears for, my dear? Aren't you enjoying yourself? There aren't very many students who are allowed your enviable position. You should be quite proud. Most teachers wouldn't choose a muggle-born witch, no matter how much talent you have."  
  
But tears continued to stream down Hermione's face as she lay with her head hanging off the end of the desk, staring at nothing. The blank look in her eyes terrified Harry. Without thinking, he stepped forward, McGonagall's tirade drowning out the noise of his footfalls, and pressed the left side of his face to Hermione's cheek. She started slightly, and life flooded back into her eyes. To silence her, he placed a cloak-covered hand over her mouth and dared a quick flash of his face. Her lower lip trembled, her eyes closed briefly and humiliation plastered her face into an immobile cast. Then she opened her eyes and he saw that the horrible blankness had returned.  
  
And still the tears ran down her cheeks. She seemed a statue, bleeding salt water. Clear white skin and dead eyes; not seeing, not hearing, not moving.  
  
"Are you listening to me, girl?!" McGonagall shrieked, a demon goddess engorged with wrath at being denied her rightful sacrifice. The gruesome metaphor who had once been his transfiguration professor chilled Harry to the core when she screamed at the impertinence of her student and raked a handful of long, sharp nails down Hermione's exposed torso, ripping open five parallel gashes that ran from collarbone to pubic hair.  
  
Hermione's eyes snapped open and she let out one long scream as her half- naked body convulsed on the altar, writhing around the sacrificial wounds that were slow to disguise themselves with blood.  
  
And still Hermione screamed, long beyond when her lungs should have been emptied of air. Desperate, Harry kept his face pressed tight against his friend's, holding her close and murmuring useless words of comfort that even he could not hear.  
  
He looked up defiantly, expecting to see some form of shock on McGonagall's face. That glance cost him what little shred of innocence he had still clung to.  
  
McGonagall simply stood there, staring at the wounds she had inflicted with unmistakable lust. Even as he watched, she closed her eyes and tilted back her head, with all the calm of a connoisseur enjoying the playing of a fine pianist. Then she shoulders tensed and she shuddered as a gasp of pleasure escaped her lips. A powerful orgasm shook her, amid the pain-filled screams of his best friend.  
  
Hermione fell silent, and then began to shake as well. Though still silent, these tears were no longer the sorrows of a statue, but sobs that racked a thin body too young to bear the weight of her scars. She curled on her side, instinctively protecting the wounds.  
  
Harry's heart hardened at the sight. He hated Voldemort, hated how the evil bastard had killed his parents, hated what how he killed without warning or mercy-wizards and muggles alike. But that had always been something in the distance, a hate he could detach himself from, one that he could ignore for a while. The hate that filled him now was white-hot, blinding, and pure. A raw emotion that lent him a power he would not have otherwise possessed.  
  
"Crucio!" he yelled, even before he realized that he held his wand in his hand. McGonagall writhed on the floor, screaming as Hermione had screamed only moments before. He pushed as much force into the spell as possible, wanting the aged professor to suffer, wanting her to be driven insane from the pain, so that when she opened her eyes, all that she could show would be the blankness that had filled Hermione's. Or perhaps terror. Driven insane so that she spent the rest of her life suspended in a moment of pain and terror. That would be good.  
  
"Harry," came the soft command. He turned toward the desk, where Hermione lay, to find her eyes staring at him. His concentration broken, the spell dissolved, and his new-found hate was overwhelmed by concern for his friend. She was staring at him, her face filled with fear and humiliation and pain.  
  
"How long has this been going on?" he asked her.  
  
She stared at the floor, only to be confronted by McGonagall's still- twitching unconscious form. Unlike Harry, she felt no hate; all that she could feel was a dull acceptance, that this was all there was to life. Once she had hated. Once she had been able to hate. But that was years ago. Why shouldn't Harry know? It wasn't like her life was worth saving, like she really cared whether or not she lived, much less what kind of a life she lived. She only deserved suffering. Why not add to it? Why shouldn't she destroy her last remaining compass? If he knew, then Ron would know and she'd be done with the lies and deceit and she could finally end the charade of happiness.  
  
"Two and a half years," she said, staring at the wall. That's what my life is like, she thought idly; just as blank and emotionless as that wall. The only things I can feel anymore are humiliation and pain. At that thought, she looked down at the five claw marks on her torso. Experimentally, she put a fingernail to one and pushed, immersing herself in a small wave of pain. At least she could feel that.  
  
Hearing a sharp intake of breath, she looked up, and saw the predictable disgust and pity on Harry's clean, untouched face. Then he was helping her to her feet, muttering about getting her to Madam Pomfrey. He hurried her through the halls, at least as fast as she could go. Her legs wouldn't quite hold her and everything seemed to be passing in a dream. It didn't really surprise her that they literally ran into Neville, the blood from her wounds soiling his robes. She was so light-headed, that his expression of horror and concern seemed comical, a parody of his usual self. Although his usual self was still fairly comical. If she hadn't been going numb, she would have giggled. She came even closer to laughter when Harry told Neville that McGonagall had done this, and had been for two years. What an idiot. She'd done this to herself; it had been Hermione Granger, the know- it-all who was such a frigging dunderhead that she had let McGonagall get hooks into her. Hadn't figured to fight back until it was too late. Even now, she hated herself for waiting until Harry stepped in to save her. But she knew that McGonagall wouldn't be deterred by this. It would simply be a minor setback. Everything would go back to the way it had been. And it was all her fault.  
  
Her robe gaped open, and she wondered whether or not it would be funny to stand up and fling it open, giving Neville the look he'd always wanted. She tried to stand, but her legs gave way. Oh well, she thought. Sorry Neville, baby, but I'm spoiled goods. You want the insufferable little twit Hermione, but this is all that's left. And it sure as hell ain't much.  
  
Then she was in the hospital wing, and Madam Pomfrey was gasping in shock. Dimly she heard Harry telling the alarmed matron what had happened. Everything was fuzzy. Was it from blood loss? She didn't feel any pain, was that a normal thing? Or was she just shutting herself away again? Was this what death would have been like if she had slit her wrists on one of those nights when she stayed awake, playing absentmindedly with a knife. It wasn't nearly as bad as people said it was. Then she drifted into darkness.  
  
  
  
A/N: Hey everybody, sorry about the long wait, I just have too many evil ideas and I've been trying to figure out how to fit them all in. Anyways, I think I have everything planned out, so I should be able to finish this soon. It's probably only going to be another two chapters, maybe three if I get really long-winded. PLEASE REVIEW!!!!! I'm an attention whore, and I feel really stupid just hanging this out to dry and not knowing what people think of it. Thanks for putting up with my sickness thus far! And yes, I do realize that this chapter is really REALLY angsty, but hey, everybody's gotta have a hobby! Don't worry, next chapter will be better. 


	4. Chapter Four

Harry had been keeping a vigil over Hermione's bedside since Madam Pomfrey began her task of keeping Hermione alive. He'd heard her muttering things; "lost a lot of blood," "old wounds," and such. One time, Harry heard her gasp in horror, but she hadn't let him see what it was that shocked her so. After two or three hours, she finally slouched back against the wall and declared that his friend would make a full recovery. Then she left to go inform Dumbledore.  
  
That had been four hours ago.  
  
Suddenly, a door slammed, and Harry jumped to his feet as Dumbledore strode into the room, followed closely by a now respectable-looking McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey.  
  
"But Professor Dumbledore," gasped Pomfrey; "You cannot wake up Hermione to question her! The poor girl almost died at Minerva's hands, you cannot interrogate her with Professor McGonagall standing a meter away! I simply will not allow it!"  
  
"Madam Pomfrey, these are serious allegations that you have made, which must be addressed immediately. Professor McGonagall will of course be present as these attacks on her character are of such a nature as to pronounce her unfit to teach should they be proven true. Now, you will go to Severus and fetch me his strongest Veritaserum. You may rest assured that I will not begin questioning Miss. Granger until you have returned. Now kindly go, Poppy," Dumbledore urged, his stern demeanor softening into a pleasant but sad little smile.  
  
With a heavy sigh, Pomfrey acquiesced before the trustworthiness radiated by that grandfatherly face. "I'll be back in a few moments," she promised with a special glare for McGonagall.  
  
The door had barely clicked shut behind her when Dumbledore's kindly facade dropped like a stone. Anger hardened his voice and fit neatly into the creases of his wrinkled old face. "Honestly, Minerva, can't you control yourself?! This is the third time in as many years! Why can't you content yourself with orphan brats the way you used to?! No one noticed or cared if they went missing, because no one knew they were here in the first place. Students will be missed, especially one so closely tied with Potter," he snarled.  
  
Alarmed, Harry drew back behind a curtain and slid backwards into the next partition. His head was reeling. Could this be the real Dumbledore? Was the kind old man just an act put on to win the trust of students?  
  
"Those brats never posed a challenge, Albus. Some of us are more subtle in our tastes than you. It's no fun if you can't play with them a bit. Hermione's given me almost three years of pleasure, and in all that time, she hasn't told a soul," McGonagall pouted.  
  
"She hasn't had to, my dear," Dumbledore scowled, "you've damaged her enough that people have begun to notice. Like Pomfrey. Do you really think that I can just keep altering her memory without her beginning to suspect anything? If the girl does die, even if it's by her own hand, then the Ministry is going to want to conduct their own autopsy, just to try and prove that we allow rampant drug use among our students or some such nonsense. It's going to show that she's been abused for years, which will lead to further inquiries, undoubtedly culminating in the closing of Hogwarts and the lot of us getting thrown into Azkaban!" the Headmaster shouted, his voice having grown steadily louder throughout his tirade.  
  
Minerva's voice took on a silky tone. "But Albus, you're so good at covering up my little mistakes," she crooned.  
  
Dumbledore chuckled dryly. "Even I have my limits, Minerva, dearest. And you of course realize that if this one can't be fixed then I'm going to Obliviate myself and thus legitimately deny any knowledge of your little hobbies."  
  
"We could always just blame it on that Malfoy twit and his two henchmen," she said with a shrug. "It's not like people wouldn't believe them capable."  
  
"True, but there's always a chance that someone will find out," Albus said just as casually as he walked over to Hermione and pulled off the sheet covering her. "Come Minerva, we have to finish this before Poppy returns so that she won't suspect anything's amiss when we Obliviate her."  
  
Then Harry heard a swift intake of breath as Dumbledore looked down at Hermione's body. "Merlin's balls, Minerva! You really outdid yourself this time!"  
  
Harry fought the urge to retch as the two bent over his friend's unconscious form, combining their power to quickly repair any visible damage. A quick cosmetic charm from Minerva covered up the scars, while Dumbledore dribbled a potion down Hermione's throat that would make it look like she just had the flu, even to Pomfrey's mediwitch observational spells. They had just barely finished and were in the process of straightening Hermione's robes and bedsheets when Pomfrey burst into the room holding a vial of purple liquid. She stopped short, and then her look of disbelief quickly changed to one of anger and outrage.  
  
"I should've known better than to leave her alone with you two!" she screamed, hurling the vial at them. She was so furious that it missed McGonagall by a wide margin, shattering against a wall behind the duo. "What did you do to her?!" Pomfrey screeched and ran to Hermione's side, performing a quick diagnosis. Her eyes bugged out as she surveyed the reading that her wand showed her. "The flu! That's impossible, I know what I healed, and it definitely wasn't the bloody flu!"  
  
She paused suddenly. "You're going to Obliviate me, aren't you?" she asked softly. "Merlin, Albus, I thought I knew you better than that. I thought you were better than that. What is the use of fighting Voldemort if you're going to condone things that he revels in? You're no better than him at all! And you've probably Obliviated poor Harry and sent him on his way so that he doesn't remember a damn bit of what that bitch did to his best friend!"  
  
Dumbledore stilled at the mention of Harry's name, and Harry silently cursed his luck. "Yes, my dear, I will have to Obliviate you. And I assure you that I am quite different from Voldemort. Minerva will be punished, but to do so publicly and with the involvement of the Ministry would destroy any ability of ours to counteract Voldemort's growing power. You understand, don't you, Poppy?"  
  
The mediwitch looked about ready to launch into another tirade, but was stopped short as Dumbledore lifted his wand and murmured "Obliviate."  
  
Madam Pomfrey looked about herself with confusion. "Now, what was I doing?" she muttered, then looked up and saw Dumbledore and McGonagall. "Albus, Minerva, what on Earth are you doing here? And, oh dear, why is Hermione in a hospital bed? Whatever happened?!" even as she spoke, she closed the distance between herself and Hermione, worriedly leaning over the young girl's bed.  
  
"Thank goodness, Poppy!" Dumbledore said brightly. "I was just about to go and get you. Minerva and I were talking with Ms. Granger when she suddenly collapsed. We levitated her up here, could you tell us if it's something serious?"  
  
Madam Pomfrey shook her head briskly. "No need to worry, just a small case of the flu. It probably just dehydrated her enough to make her collapse like that. Plenty of tea and a few days of bedrest and she'll be fine. I'll just go get her some tea, Headmaster. Will you please stay with her until I return?"  
  
"Certainly, my dear," Dumbledore replied graciously. "I'd be happy to help. After all, Hermione is such a dear girl. So bright. I have to thank you for putting my mind at ease."  
  
Poppy simply smiled and inclined her head respectfully before turning toward the kitchens.  
  
This time when the medi-witch left, Dumbledore didn't drop his mask of congeniality, but simply allowed a sinister flicker to enter his voice as he called out to the quiet Infirmary; "Come on out, Harry. There's no use in hiding."  
A/N: Thanks to everyone for waiting around. I'm really sorry that this update took this long, but I'd like to thank all 5 of my reviewers and Whitney who offered to beta and helped me through a spot in here where I was completely stuck. After throwing some ideas around with her, I now have a pretty solid idea of where this is going. Not sure how many more chapters, although I'll try to keep them coming faster than the snail's pace this one insisted on. 


	5. Chapter Five

Harry swallowed hard. Dumbledore knew that he was here, but did that mean that he should just give up? Maybe if he could get out of here, he could warn enough people that Dumbledore wouldn't be able to Obliviate them all. Maybe he could find someone who'd believe him. Hell, maybe even Snape....  
  
Snape! What a bloody brilliant idea! Perhaps it was the knowledge of things like this that kept Snape so gloomy and bitter all the time. To return to Dumbledore from a monster like Voldemort only to discover that they're just the same, that'd destroy anyone's good humor.  
  
The sound of shifting robes only a curtain away brought him back to reality. He'd have to wait until they were distracted and then run for the door. An idea struck him and he bit his lip, debating. But then he saw the hem of Dumbledore's robes begin to walk towards his partition and made a decision that he would come to regret more than anything. In fact, it would be the thought and memory of this decision that would propel his feet forward and off the side of the Astronomy Tower some six years later.  
  
He took a deep breath and murmured, "Imperio."  
  
Strangely enough, it worked, even with Hermione being unconscious, and she abruptly sat up, startling both the Headmaster and McGonagall. Without thinking, Harry poured all of his hatred at the transfigurations professor into Hermione, and she obediently leapt into action, throwing herself at McGonagall with all the physical power her exhausted body could muster. Amid his professor's astonished shouts, Harry sprinted for the door.  
  
He never made it.  
  
In fact, he never even heard Albus's amused voice mutter "stupefy." All he knew was the helplessness of being unable to move a muscle as he heard Albus Dumbledore walk towards him. He was also dimly aware that Hermione must have lapsed back into unconsciousness as soon as he was ensnared by Dumbledore's spell, since he could no longer feel the slight tug of the spell on his concentration, or hear Hermione's struggles.  
  
But all that remained foremost in his mind was a sense of despair, quickly being hedged in by panic. This was it. After all the years of dodging death and the annihilation of the entire wizarding world by Lord Voldemort, he was going to be made to forget about his best friend. He was going to abandon her. And for some reason, that seemed worse than a thousand screaming bouts of the Cruciatus' under Voldemort's wand. Then the man, whose betrayal to Harry ran deeper than either would ever know, spoke.  
  
"Tsk, tsk, Harry. Two Unforgivables in a day. What would the Ministry think of that? I know Rita Skeeter would just have a field day with it. Don't you agree?"  
  
Harry could hear Dumbledore moving behind him, but the old man remained out of his line of sight, which only made it harder to keep from capitulating to his fear. He wanted to scream, just as Hermione had done, just scream and keep on screaming and block out the world for as long as you have breath in your lungs, but the spell holding him motionless prevented any such act.  
  
"In fact, I must admit to being surprised by your unprecedented act of self- preservation just now. I daresay I would have thought you'd try to stun Minerva and myself before carting Miss Granger off to safety. As it is, do you know what you've shown me, Mr. Potter?" Harry could feel the Headmaster's warm breath on his cheek and realized that the old man must be mere inches away from his face. It made him want to whimper. Dumbledore just continued to talk, relentlessly breaking down Harry's defenses.  
  
"It shows me that you're not the Boy Wonder that everyone believes you to be. You, Harry Potter, were willing to sacrifice your best friend to save your own skin. I'd say that you're no better than Voldemort, but that's not quite true. You see, Voldemort uses everyone, and makes them well aware of that fact. He would never stab his best friend in the back because he would never allow anyone close enough to have a best friend."  
  
Dumbledore chuckled. "Although I really must admit to that being my fault. What can I say? I made a mistake. But Tom was such a vital youth, so full of life and Gryffindor qualities, that I couldn't quite help myself. Next thing I know, he's storming out of my office on the night before his graduation saying that he'll use any means necessary to stop me from torturing and raping future generations. He actually used the word 'rape,' can you believe it? As if my seduction was done against his will! He welcomed it, and perhaps that's why he hated me. It had been his one pride that no matter what his heritage, no matter how he was ridiculed for it, he'd always known that he was as straight as a ruler. I think that when I upset that delicate balance, I may have destroyed his mind," Albus confided.  
  
"Yes, Albus," Minerva commented with a smile in her voice. "You did an excellent job with young Tom. I didn't need to find a familiar for those four years, as I was quite satisfied vicariously. It was almost more delicious to simply watch the decay of a young mind than to cause it."  
  
Harry felt sick. Dumbledore had created Voldemort? Dumbledore had created the man who killed his parents? It was Dumbledore's fault? All of it? Cedric Diggory and Bertha Jorkins and that one old muggle who'd climbed out of the end of Voldemort's wand . . . the headmaster of Hogwarts was responsible for all of that?  
  
"I know this may be rather hard for you to grasp, Harry," crooned Dumbledore into his ear. "But we mustn't be getting off of the subject now. It was a very serious thing that you did to Hermione, and I think that you need to be shown just what it was like for her."  
  
Harry whimpered, unable to help himself.  
  
"Ah yes, the spell is beginning to wear off. Just in time. You see, I don't know if you've ever truly felt the effects of the Imperious curse. I know Tom attempted to subject you to it last spring, but Imperious relies heavily on mental stamina, and his mind-pardon the pun-always was rather "riddled" with weaknesses. One of the downsides to being truly insane, you understand. The same goes for young master Crouch. Imperious in the hands of a strong wizard is quite literally impossible to resist, and can be used in far more subtle ways that a simple coercion of physical motion. I could probably turn a Slytherin into a Gryffindor. I've never tested it, although I did turn our brave young Tom into as conniving and cold-hearted a Slytherin as you can get. I must say, I found it quite amusing: The heir of Salazar, a Gryffindor Prefect. Quite the irony there, hm?  
  
"But oh yes, as I was saying. I think that you need to experience firsthand what you just put Hermione through, Harry," Dumbledore murmured pleasantly. "Minerva, dear, if you could please wake Ms. Granger up; I think that her participation in this will be most welcome."  
  
Harry heard McGonagall mutter "enervate," and then Dumbledore stepped into view for the first time since Harry had been frozen. The wrinkled old Headmaster smiled benignly at him and then raised his wand and said softly, "Imperio."  
  
A/N: Sorry about the cliffhanger, but what happens next is kinda big and deserves its own chapter. Thanks again to all my reviewers and my semi- beta (I basically just bounce ideas off her, my computer already has spellcheck), your support is very appreciated! 'Til next time! ^_^ 


	6. Chapter Six

A/N: I'm really sorry this has been so long in coming and I have no excuse other than my own laziness and forgetfulness. I also hope that this isn't too bad, it's my first time writing.....something like this. Go ahead, read! And please review when you're done!  
  
Chapter 6  
  
Harry heard McGonagall mutter "enervate," and then Dumbledore stepped into view for the first time since Harry had been frozen. The wrinkled old Headmaster smiled benignly at him and then raised his wand and said softly, "Imperio."  
  
At first, he didn't feel it. It wasn't at all like it had been when Barty Crouch had put him under the Imperio. Then, he had been forced to the back of his mind, unable to see or hear anything except a little voice gently prodding him to do something. Then Dumbledore completely took over and he understood the difference immediately. The Imperio of both Crouch and Voldemort tried to persuade him to do something, because they both lacked the mental stamina to actually force the action. Dumbledore, it seemed, had no such troubles.  
  
It was as if the Stupefy he'd been hit with a few minutes before had suddenly been transferred to his brain. No only could he not move, he couldn't even think to move. Whatever part of his mind allowed him movement was being completely occupied by Dumbledore's commands. It was as if the headmaster was actually inside his mind . . .  
  
*Quite right, Harry,* came an amused voice. *I am inside your mind. What can I say, they don't call me the 'headmaster' for nothing!* Silent laughter echoed throughout Harry's skull before fading away, leaving a vague sensation of amusement. Harry smiled mentally. That actually was pretty funny.  
  
A triumphant smile played across Dumbledore's lips. Harry Potter may be the Boy Who Lived, but he surrendered to a good Imperio just as quickly as anyone else. It took minimal mental prodding to bring him to the foot of Hermione's bed. She looked at him with a nervous curiosity, clearly wondering why he was standing beside Dumbledore and McGonagall like the three were the best of friends.  
  
"Now you see, Harry," said Dumbledore quite clearly, "exactly why I've done everything in my power to keep this quiet?"  
  
Harry struggled against this for a moment. What on earth was Dumbledore talking about? He'd seen it! He'd seen what that evil old bitch had done to Hermione! The images flashed through his mind and a surge of anger rose up, pounding against a benign old presence that dutifully nodded his head and insisted to Harry's mind that yes, Hermione was just a confused teenager who had begun taking her restless and altogether whorish nature out on his favorite teacher.  
  
Dumbledore frowned slightly and the anger slowly ebbed to be replaced by a sense of profound confusion. Had he really seen that? Or was it all just a figment of his imagination? As the memories came up once again for a reexamination of what he'd been sure of only seconds before, Dumbledore saw his chance. With the appearance of each memory that arose, he quickly deleted or altered them as it suited his purpose. By the end of his review, Harry remembered quite vividly seeing Hermione in black leather and viciously raping Professor McGonagall, who had wildly clawed out against her student in a valiant attempt at self-defense. The bit about delivering the Cruciatus curse and overhearing the condemning conversation between Dumbledore and McGonagall was deleted entirely. Harry's eyes turned accusingly to Hermione.  
  
"Well, Hermione, it seems I was mistaken about you," he said in a flat tone absolutely ripe with bitterness. "Here me and Ron would've defended you to the end, but you had to go and rape our own head of house?! What kind of sick freak are you? You're . . . you're . . ." he seemed unable to find the words to express his disgust and horror and seized upon the morsel of an idea that Dumbledore offered to him. "You're just like Pettigrew!" he hissed vehemently.  
  
Hermione flinched back at Harry's words, struck dumb by his vehemence. Then she saw the half-smile on Dumbledore's face and the outright smirk clinging to McGonagall's. So the old bitch had been telling the truth, Hermione thought bitterly. If her friends found out, they could and would turn them against her. And Harry would convince Ron, who's big mouth would spread it throughout the school in a matter of hours. It was over. The whole world would know, but not about her shame, but about this story the two had fed to Harry.  
  
Rita Skeeter's going to have a field day with this, she thought numbly.  
  
But Dumbledore was talking to Harry again. What was he saying? More lies? Undoubtedly. Why should she put out the energy to listen? With those thoughts, Hermione curled into a ball on her hospital bed. Maybe they would just leave her alone. Her life was over, why couldn't they just leave her alone?  
  
Harry, on the other hand, was being directed like a puppet. 'Come on,' urged a voice in his head. 'Get her back for what she did to McGonagall. Show her what it's like to be attacked by someone you trusted. Show her what it's like to be . . . raped.' There was an edge of excitement that leaked into these last words. Dumbledore's excitement to be sure, but it did the trick well enough. Harry felt himself stiffen at the thought that he could avenge his teacher, and well, he'd always liked Hermione a little . . .  
  
Dumbledore seized upon that and magnified it many times over, driving Harry nearly insane with lust. From this new perspective, he'd wanted her for years, but had held back because Ron was his best friend and wanted her, and besides, he didn't want her to be hurt if Voldemort found out that he had a girlfriend.  
  
New lust and new memories (neither of which he'd had any time to become accustomed to) made for a very unstable mix. With a growl of frustration, he clumsily launched himself at Hermione, knocking her off the hospital bed in the process.  
  
She stared up at him with wide eyes, "Harry, what are you doing?" He ripped her hospital gown down the front and grabbed her breasts roughly, cruelly pinching her nipples.  
  
"Harry, stop it!" she screamed, trying to push him away. What was going on? Why was there so much hatred etched into his face? Knowing about McGonagall couldn't make him hate her this much, could it? She'd thought he'd push her away, be disgusted with what she'd allowed herself to become. But this? In a way, this was worse. There was such revulsion on his face that she wanted nothing more than cover her eyes, block him out, block out the green eyes that had been so kindly to her. Tears ran down her face as her struggles renewed, except she was no longer trying to fend off Harry, she was just trying to escape, to run away and find someplace dark enough that she couldn't see those cold green eyes.  
  
"Stop fighting you little bitch!" Harry snarled as he released one breast to backhand her. "You wouldn't fucking let me near you, but you played the slut to McGonagall well enough, didn't you? Now it's my turn, damn it, and you're going to moan and scream like the little mudblood slut you are!" His eyes darkened with lust as he sneered down at her. Then he ran his eyes down her body possessively, with his hands following close behind. His grip was painful, but different from McGonagall's. The animagus used her fingernails like scalpels, but Harry's fingers were strong and blunt from years of Quidditch practice. His touch was rough and bruising, unlike the sharp, cutting pain she'd long since become accustomed to. His grip was stronger, digging into her. She could feel her bones groan in protest as he pushed down on them.  
  
Harry's feverish version of foreplay continued, as he took two fingers and roughly explored her, slamming his fingers from one side to another in a parody of preparing her. Satisfied, he removed his still-dry fingers and knelt on her thighs while he struggled to undo his trousers. Hermione shrieked and sobbed and writhed, trying to get away, twisting and turning like a snake, but all in vain. His task finally accomplished, Harry knelt between her legs, then grabbed her by the thighs and pulled her back onto his dick.  
  
Hermione screamed. McGonagall's twisted ministrations had always prepared her body, so that it hadn't hurt much, even when she'd taken Hermione's virginity with her own wand. She'd never slammed into her dry, with as much force as a well-muscled physique could muster. It only got worse, as he tore through her the pain increased, as if he were raping her with a rasp or file instead of himself.  
  
Through a haze of pain, she felt him shudder and go still. As the pain began to ebb, she felt him slide out of her, and suddenly the painful pressure that had pinned her to the floor disappeared. Without even a glance at him, she scrambled away, until her back hit the wall and she simply pressed against it, seeking both comfort and escape.  
  
Later on, they would reckon that Dumbledore had been feeding off the rape, leaching of off Harry's forced lust, and when he'd ridden the wave of Harry's orgasm, he'd let his control slip, just long enough for Harry to shed the suggestions and rewrites like water.  
  
But right now all that Harry knew was that Hermione was huddled against a wall, trying to escape from him. He looked down to see blood covering his penis, staining his trousers. He'd just raped his best friend.  
  
A/N: Like I said above, I hope the rape scene wasn't too bad. If you are a pervert (like me) and enjoyed the above chapter, please remember that having more reviewers might encourage me to make prompt updates..... *hint hint* No previews, but the next chapter will probably deal with Neville and Snape.  
  
-Ailene 


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